


Rules Spoil the Game

by tears_of_nienna



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/pseuds/tears_of_nienna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the end of Season 2, Neal takes a polygraph. Peter is not convinced; unethical interrogation techniques ensue. (Consensual.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rules Spoil the Game

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XIII, with the prompts "bluffing" and "faith."

_Neal: How long are you going to keep me here?  
Peter: Until I'm satisfied._  
\--Season 3, Episode 1

* * *

After Jones shuts down the polygraph, Peter puts the anklet back on Neal. Then they pack up the polygraph and leave Neal alone in the room. 

It's nicer than a standard FBI interrogation room--floor to ceiling windows (fourteenth floor, so they don't open) and a heavy wooden door instead of steel (seven, maybe nine-pin lock--pickable with time and the right tools). The lights are dim and fluorescent. There's no clock, so he has no idea how long they've been gone. For all he knows, they've gone home and left him here. Neal gets up from the chair and wanders over to the window. He's never been in a cell with a view like this.

The door opens, and Peter walks in, alone. He shuts the door behind him, but there's no click to suggest he's set the lock.

Neal studies Peter's reflection in the window before he turns around. "Where's Jones?"

"I sent him home. Somebody ought to get some sleep."

"So I guess that means I'm not going back to June's tonight."

"To June's? Neal, after what you've done I should be taking you back to prison."

Neal gives Peter an even look. "If you were going to send me back, you would have done it already. You don't even need the U-boat--all you have to do is say that the partnership isn't working out, and I'm back inside for the next two years."

"No. I have to know. Neal, I'm going to prove that you did this."

"Good luck."

Peter shakes his head. "You were playing us all along, ever since the Dutchman. I thought Kate was using you to get at the U-boat. I _worried_ about you. But you were the mastermind, weren't you?"

Neal says nothing.

"You know, I used to think you loved her more than anything. Now I'm wondering if you ever gave a damn about anyone but yourself."

"Peter, that isn't--"

Peter pushes him--not hard, just enough to make Neal step back against the wall. "I let you into my life, Neal. Into my _bed_. I let you fuck my _wife_ , for Christ's sake!"

Neal glares at him. "Actually, your _wife_ let me fuck your wife, and I'm telling you, I didn't steal anything this time."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying to you! You saw the test yourself. _I didn't take the art._ "

" _Enough_ , Neal." The kiss, when it comes, is powerful enough to bounce Neal's shoulders off the thick glass of the window. Neal grabs a handful of Peter's shirt and pulls him closer, arching off the wall to press their hips together.

There aren't any cameras down here--Neal had been sure of that within two minutes of their arrival. There's nobody else on the floor, nobody to hear him scream.

Not that he _screams_. Much.

Peter's mouth leaves his. "Turn around."

"Yeah," Neal breathes.

Peter bites him, a sharp scrape of teeth low on the side of his neck. "No talking."

Neal turns and braces his hands on the window (he's leaving fingerprints, evidence, and he doesn't even _care_ ). For a second he expects Peter to grab his wrists, to lock handcuffs on him and take him back to prison with his own bite-mark still burning on Neal's throat.

Instead his hands drop to Neal's belt. He yanks at the buckle and then shoves Neal's pants and boxers down to his ankles. Now he couldn't run if he wanted to--and even if he did, Peter would catch him.

Peter always catches him. Always. Neal relaxes, and then he shivers when his cock brushes the cold glass of the window. He presses back against Peter, but Peter settles one hand on his hip, holding him still. His other hand slides lower, spreading him, and Neal's breath catches in his throat.

Peter's fingers are wet, but there's a burn as he presses inward. It's going to be rough; Neal will be sore for days after this, and the thought only makes him harder.

Peter pulls away, and Neal closes his eyes to concentrate on the sounds behind him. Belt, zipper, and then the crinkle of a foil packet. Always prepared--he'd bet every penny he's ever stolen that Peter was a Boy Scout once. He opens his mouth to say it, and then closes it again. Peter said no talking.

Then Peter's hand is on his hip again, and Neal feels the blunt head of Peter's cock as he pushes into him. The hurt takes his breath away, and then it's done and Peter is deep inside of him. 

Neal would confess to crimes that haven't even been committed if Peter would just _move_.

Peter's hips rock back, slowly at first before settling into a hard, fast rhythm. His hands glide over Neal's body, moving from ribs to hips in a parody of a pat-down, like he could frisk the secrets from beneath Neal's skin.

The window glass is cold, but Peter's hands are warm and his cock is hot and thick and perfect. Neal pushes back to meet each thrust, his arms shaking, and Peter reaches around to take hold of Neal's cock with the hand that isn't digging bruises into Neal's hip. Peter isn't gentle; his hands are rough and callused and Neal knows it isn't going to take long--

Peter stops.

He doesn't come, he just _stops_ , right there on the edge, his hand tight and still on Neal's cock.

"Did you steal it?" Peter asks, impossibly cool.

Neal takes a ragged breath. "Confessions under duress aren't valid, Peter."

"Did you?"

"No."

Peter gives his cock a slow, rough stroke, and Neal squirms. "You sure about that?"

"I swear, Peter. I didn't--I wouldn't--God, will you please just _trust me_?"

Peter doesn't answer, but his hips rock forward and his hand slides on Neal's cock and that's all it takes--Neal's tumbling over the edge, forehead pressed against the glass as he shivers through his orgasm.

Peter's hand tightens on Neal's hip, and he goes absolutely still as he comes, his cock pulsing inside Neal.

For a moment, Neal can only lean dazedly against the glass, watching each breath fog and fade. At last Peter pulls away, the friction almost painful on oversensitive skin. Neal buttons his trousers again without looking over his shoulder at Peter.

"Do you believe me?" he asks, finally looking up.

Peter shakes his head, anger and guilt overlaid on the smug satisfaction that comes from making Neal fall apart. "I don't know."

Neal nods, but he doesn't move. He isn't sure what that means for him.

Peter sighs. "Go home, Neal," he says, his voice harsh and tired. "I'll see you in the morning." He turns and walks out of the room without looking back.

Neal slumps heavily against the glass, still catching his breath. After a moment he straightens up again, relishing the sharp burn as he moves. He tugs his jacket back into position, picks up the hat from the floor, and smiles to himself. 

Maybe he'll wait a few days before he tells Peter where the treasure is.


End file.
